The Gift, (37.5/ that mathematical symbol that reads as "infinitely approaching infinity") not by Jayel Wylie usual copyright disclaimers this story is respectfully dedicated to Mary Elizabeth Lifsey, who really was Born Yesterday and for the record, all the real persons who appear in this story do so with consent, though T.P.C. is being pissy about it * * * our story so far... but you might want to know that Natalie is about a quart low at the moment, courtesy of Vachon who is mad at Nick; a green-eyed blonde-headed vampire babe named Francesca who happened to be the V-man's wife is real dead, having committed suicide by sunshine with a certain amount of encouragement by LaCroix; LaCroix was decapitated by Vachon but is not dead because he's far too old and powerful and also because Urs is helping him (omnia Lucius in two parts divida est); I forget where Nick is exactly, but he's trying to get to LaCroix and help him; and Tracy and Screed have just had a confab and are going to try to save Vachon who, they reasonably believe, is looking at a truncated future on account of he burned down the Raven and made a creditable but unsuccessful effort to use the fire to roast LaCroix en brochette. * * * Tracy and Screed prepared to rush out to save Vachon, and-- "Stop! STOP!!" A referee's whistle was blown loudly. Tracy and Screed stopped and stared behind them at the strange little man who had materialized out of nowhere in Tracy's living room, which is where they were rushing out from. "Who the heck are you, and how did you get here?" Tracy demanded. "Tham Pyn Chong, Fic Police," said the man holding the whistle. "The 'G' is silent." "Funny, you don't look Vietnamese," said Tracy. "Shaddup," said Chong. "I just flew in from another reality, and boy, are my wings tired. Badda bing, badda boom!" "Wait a minute," said Tracy. "Aren't you that guy, didn't I have to read you in Freshman Lit...?" "Oi," Screed said. "Anfony Burgiss, loike? Great book, that Clockwork Orange." "Not him," Tracy said. "That other guy, the one who..." "Shaddup," said the strange man. "You *are* him," Tracy said positively. "God, you know, your last novel was pretty bad." Chong blew his whistle loudly. "Hey, ya wanna be a critic, get a job on the New York Times. Meanwhile, I'm in charge here... and I say Shaddup. I got dragged into this reality to do a job -- send Heinlein, I said, but no-ooo -- so I'm by God gonna do it." Tracy shut up. "Okay, the first thing is to get all you characters in one place." He clapped his hands, and all the principal surviving characters in "The Gift" appeared in Tracy's living room. "What the hell?" said everyone. "Tham Pyn Chong, Fic Police, the 'G' is silent and I'm only Vietnamese in this reality because I'm incog-freakin'-nito for legal reasons, you got that?" Most of the characters nodded their heads, and Urs nodded LaCroix's head for him. "Okay," Chong said. "Now we need the alpha babe." "Francesca?" said Vachon hopefully. Screed jabbed him in the ribs. "'Old yer tongue, 'e's a rum 'un," Screed said in a stage whisper. "And yer don't want the missus in Sweet Baby's Jane's toss-and-plop anyroad, if ye catch the draft o' me drift." Chong stared at the bald carouche. "And they call *me* incomprehensible," he griped. "Post-modernism is See Spot Run compared to that. No, the alpha-babe here is the Author." He clapped his hands twice and a young woman who didn't want to be described was sitting in the room. "What the fu-uck?" Jayel drawled, not unpleasantly. "He's Tham Pyn Chong of the Fic Police," Tracy told her. "The 'G' is silent, and he hasn't read us our rights or anything." Chong glared, and Tracy bit her lip. "I was just trying to help," she said. "Don't," said Chong. "Fic Police?" said Jayel. "Geez, one little personal note on fkfic-l and I get transported to an alternate reality? I even apologized to Lisa and everything." "This ain't about that," said Chong. "Nope, I've been sent here to wrap things up. You started posting this story in 1995, are you aware of that?" "Yeah," said Jayel, a bit reluctantly. "This is mid-November 1996, are you aware of THAT?" "So?" said Jayel. "Didn't you persistently tell your readers that more parts were forthcoming? Didn't you promise to get the story finished soon? And didn't you promise your faithful Indian sidekick and beta-babe, LaTonta Jackson, that you were absolutely, positively going to wrap this thing up in 36 parts?" Jayel's mouth set stubbornly. A plugged-in halogen lamp appeared in Chong's left hand and he shone it in Jayel's face. "DIDN"T YOU?? "Okay, yeah," she said. "So what? This is fandom. But uh, about that faithful Indian companion.... " "STOP!" Chong ordered. "Nunh-uh!" said Jayel. Her indescribable features were set in firm refusal. "I'm not taking the fall for her -- she had four parts to beta-read, FOUR, and she just sat on them almost all summer..." "Tough titties," said Chong. "She's *my* Author, and I'm not allowed to entertain complaints." "Followin' orders, huh? That's what they said at Nuremberg," snarled Jayel. "Wimp. Moron. And I thought you were a great Post-Modern Author..." "Babe, you just don't know how to play the game," Chong said in a grizzled, world-weary, I've-been-living-in-Mexico-drinking-cheap-liquor- for-thirty-years kind of voice. "If you'd been nice to me right then, you might have been a sizzling redhead or a svelte blonde with slender thighs in this sentence. As it is..." he glared at her nondescript, er, undescribed, features. "I *could* put it around that...." "But you won't," Jayel said. "'Cause I'd just have to put it around that your Author...." "Don't start!" said Chong. "I've called you here because my orders are to wrap this thing up pronto. You've ticked off the Cousins AND the Nat Pack, you're writing Hurt without Comfort, and you seem to have entirely lost sight of the fact that this show is called-- uh, *was* called-- Forever *KNIGHT.*" "Sue me," said Jayel unrepentantly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Chong laughed harshly. "Oh no, babe, the Fic Police don't sue. We leave that to Sony and Paragon and Famous Offended People over in that other reality. Nope-- I'm here to rewrite you, sister, and you're gonna take it and you're gonna like it." "Hey, you wanna be a critic, get a job on the New York Times," Jayel started belligerantly, but Chong blew his whistle. "We're starting where you shoulda started," Chong snapped. "At the end. Destiny. Fate. A man's character is his--." Jayel yawned. (to be continued...) invective may be hurled at: Apache the Faithless Indian Sidekick lf@cais.com The Gift 37.5, part 2 not by Jayel Wylie this part is dedicated to Catherine S. "Okay," said Chong. "Let's get down to brass tacks. We're gonna finish this story right here, right now." He turned to Jayel and gave her a stern look. "And what's the quickest, simplest way to finish a story?" he quizzed her. Jayel frowned. "Uh . . . " "Happy ending," Chong rapped out. "Eww," Jayel wrinkled her nose. "This may be fanfic, but it ain't a ro-mance." "Shaddup," snarled Chong. "It's not pretty, but it's the quickest way to get the job done. Okay, you with the hair, whaddaya want?" Vachon blinked. "You know, when you do that, people start wondering if you have Grave's disease," Chong said, distracted. Vachon frowned. "I've been dead for 466 years. I don't have *any* diseases." Chong frowned back. "Sorry, sorry. Wrong reality. Over there in that other reality... well, I've heard you even wanted your own trailer." "Do I look like Tonya Harding to you?" Vachon said incredulously. "Never mind what you look like to me," said Chong. "Tell me what you want." "I want Francesca," Vachon said sadly. He gave Tracy a sweetly soulful sidelong gaze and whispered, "I promised her -- forever." Tracy bit her lip and nodded, blinking away tears. Vachon opened his mouth to continue his pretty soliloquoy but Chong int errupted. "No can do, chum, she's real dead. Hell, that little blot on your forehead -- that one there, straight up from your nose, and two over to the left -- that's part of her ashes, remember?" Vachon nodded and blinked. "Ya know what else they say when you do that?" Chong snapped. "They say the author can't write!" "Hey!" said Jayel. "Calm down, babe, you're not writing this piece, remember?" said Chong. "It wasn't you that made him blink." Jayel subsided into her chair. "Okay, Vachon wants what he can't possibly have -- good, we're done with you, siddown, you're gonna get the Generic Happy Ending." "What's that," asked Jayel. "We'll team him up with stick-insect over there," said Chong, gesturing at Tracy. "They'll each have an epiphany about how dealing with reality isn't really the same thing as giving up and settling for second best." "It isn't?" said Jayel, a frown creasing her creamy... oh wait, that was almost a description. Chong scowled. "Okay, *you* with the hair. What can I get you?" "A transfusion?" said Natalie a bit hazily. "Maybe a no-limit card at Bendel's?" Chong grinned. "I think those are in the budget." "Oh wait," said Natalie woozily. "I forgot. I want true love." Chong got tough. "Hey, sister, you already rolled your dice. Be happy with the plastic, ya know whattamean? He turned. "Okay, you, deBrabant -- what do you want?" "To be mortal again. To repay society for my sins. To emerge from my world of darkness-- from my endless... forever... night." "Geez," said Chong, rubbing his chin. "That's a toughie, even in this reality. I may have to get a consult from Glenda the Good Witch of the North, or maybe, oh what's her name, the Fairy Godmother." "Rusty," said Jayel. "*His* name is Rusty. I'm into gender stuff, remember?" "Shut up, babe, I'll tell you when I need you," growled Chong. "Okay, Nick, you're a cop, so I'll see what I can do on this mortality deal -- professional courtesy, ya know whattamean. Okay, you, LaCroix -- " Chong looked at LaCroix's head, held tenderly in the crook of Urs' arm. Chong shook his head, and shot a glance at Jayel. "Gotta hand it to ya," he said, "I never would have thought of that one." Jayel smiled. "Okay, Lucius, how 'bout you -- whaddaya want?" "I want Nicholas to quit stealing my lines," said LaCroix's head. "The voice-over is MINE." "Actors," said Chong. "Knight, whaddaya say?" "He deceived me cruelly," Nick whispered. "I wouldn't have used his lines if he hadn't -- oh, okay." "Whew!" said Chong. "Okay, adios, siddown." LaCroix's head subsided back into Urs' lap. "So, blondie, what about you? What can I do you for?" Chong leered at Urs. "Well," she said, in a hesitant, breathy, Monroe-like voice, "Jayel thinks I've always wanted Javier and Apache thinks I want Lucien, so I've been kind of confused in this story. But, you know what, Mr. Chong?" Urs brightened suddenly. "I want to be in *show business!*" "Vegas showgirl do ya?" said Chong. "Lotsa sequins, feathers on your head, big tips tucked into your outfit by old guys?" "Old guys?" Urs beamed. Chong waved a hand. "Okay, there's a job with your name on it in glitter at the fabulous Tonga Room in Vegas." "'Ere, mate, if yer handin' out free junkets to Vegas, maybe you could punch a ticket for old Screedie?" said the carouche. "That's what you want?" "Much as anyfink," Screed shrugged. "Few 'unnerd year on the vamp squad, ye get to like some bells and whistles in the clear-and-bright, not to mention the malenky splishy-splash o' cash in the old manos dedos when the one-armed droogy stands and delivers." Chong looked to Vachon. "Neon lights and slot machines," said the Spaniard. "He likes them." Chong looked back at Screed. "Ya know, over in that other reality, I read your book. Pretty good novel, really. Why you feel you have to express yourself as a cross between Eliza Doolittle's Dad and Anthony Burgess completely exceeds my comprehension." "'Ere," Screed said belligerently, "a chap likes to be colorful. What price Jim Joyce, eh, mate?" "You tell him," said a small round man with small round glasses who had an abnormal fear of squirrels and had suddenly appeared perched on Tracy's kitchen counter. "Quite right. You may be an ambivalent inter-reader." "Eh?" said Screed. But Chong was rounding on the newcomer. "Harold Flower, you dare to show your face in media fandom?!? Begone, foul spirit!" Flower made a noise with his lips that sounded just like a fart. "Weak, pretentious fool. I would never *dream* of putting you in my canon -- and 'Vineyard,' or whatever it was called -- good God, man, what a waste of ink and trees and glue!" Chong was rapidly approaching apoplexy. Jayel was stretching those words-cannot-do-justice, or-at-least-they're-not-going-to-in-this-piece, features of hers in an evil grin that would be instantly recognizable to anyone who will be sitting for orals later this week. Chong retaliated: "Isn't it true that your reworking of the Pentateuch owed a great deal to Stephen Michelle's translation notes, which you just happened to read in manuscript? "There were certain ideational echoes," Flower hedged. "You mean like the parts where they were identical?" needled Chong. "It's a strong misreading," said Hal. "Honey-blossom, in Dixie we call it 'plagiary,'" drawled Jayel. A tall, angular woman with intensely black hair strode masterfully into the room. She pointed a long, elegantly manicured fingernail at Chong and Flower in turn. "You are both mere puppets of the phallocentric, logovalorizing, patriarchal, Euro-worshipping discredited DWEM canonical tradition, with no adequate grasp of the ahistorical communal kinesthetic story-telling that was the mode of the cyclical mythos that predates all your petty textuality!" she snapped, without once pausing for breath. "'Ear, 'ear, you go girl," said Screed with a toothy grin. Everyone else yawned, including Chong and Flower. "So, am I going to regain my lost humanity?" said Nick plaintively. "Not in my story, honey," said Jayel, tilting back in her chair. "But you got a Post-Modern Author, a Post-Structuralist Critic with Delusions of Poethood, a Deconstructionist, and a deranged Indian sidekick workin' on ya now, so anything could happen. You could get a nose job or a free ride to Philadelphia." "Don't bother," said Chong. "It's a dump. Boring. Grey. Dirty. One little Dust-Buster could revolutionize the place, but do they care?" "Shut up!" said the tall woman, articulating clearly. She clapped her hands, and Tiray and Jean appeared in the living room, sliding off Urs and Nick, on whom they had respectively landed. Tiray made a small effort to slide back on to Urs, but retrea ted when the pretty vampire threw him across the room. "Who are these guys?" said everyone except Jayel and LaCroix. Jayel met the inquiring glances of the other characters and explained, "they were in a little scene at the end of Part 37." "Lackeys," said LaCroix dismissively. "Servants." "Well, yeah, incidental characters," said Jayel. "I was pretty much done with them." "Hah!" said the magnificent Deconstructionist. "Then you too, my benighted sister, have fallen prey to the hierarchical, protagonistical fallacy." At last she breathed, but it was only to go on with her aria: "*Incidental,*" she said sneeringly. "There speaks thirty-six unbroken centuries of tyranny--" LaCroix's eyebrows quirked with reawakened interest "-- commencing with the Iliad and raging unabated to this very day! Could this alleged 'story' continue if Tiray and Jean refused to deliver the glass coffin? If they simply hijacked it -- perhaps took an early lunch?" Jayel swiveled in her chair to look directly at the screen. "Apache, are you about through with this joke?" she said crankily. "The rest of us sure as hell are." The Deconstructionist was continuing: "Who's the most important character in 'A Rose For Emily?' Toby! Why? Because *he never says a word!* And in Moby Dick? The captain of the Rachel!--" Meanwhile, Screed had been creeping through the room, whispering in the other characters' ears. Chong and Flower were bickering, the Deconstructionist was orating, and Jayel was turning circles in her swivel chair, so no one noticed as all the main char acters in the Gift snuck out the door of Tracy's apartment and sprinted for the street. The only trace of their continued existence was the distant sound of Urs' voice saying fretfully, "Does this mean I don't get the job in Vegas?", trailing away down the hall. This left Chong, Jean, Tiray, Blossom, Jayel, and the Deconstructionist Diva in a suddenly emptied out living room. "Hey!" said Jayel, "I gotta catch up on my story." Chong glared at her. "I'll lose my badge for this," he said. "Fic Police washout. Bad novel. Damn. When it rains, it pours." "Well, at least you'll be away from *them,*" said Jayel, indicating the critics. Chong nodded. "Small mercies," he sighed. He looked closely at Jayel, but I can't tell you what he saw. "Ya know, Freud says we're all in this for fame, money, and beautiful lovers. But this is fanfic -- what's in it for ya?" Jayel shrugged, and Chong nodded. "Not that I'd turn down fame, money, and major babe-guys in the home," Jayel added. Now Chong shrugged. "The truth is, it only works that way in this reality. Ya wanna stay here, or maybe go for Chinese?" "What about them?" Jayel waved at Jean, Tiray, Flower and the Diva. Chong shrugged again. "Gimme some paper." Jayel passed him the same foolscap on which Tracy usefully had written "THE DOCKS. MIDNIGHT" in "Night in Question." Chong licked his pencil and started to write: "The two critics and the incidental characters were suddenly seized by overwhelming lust. Clamping their mouths together breathlessly, they moved in one lip-locked lust-bubble toward Tracy's bed...." Far, far away, the Author looked down and saw that it was good. **** slings, arrows, poison darts go to Apache lf@cais.com